One Small Step
by KCS
Summary: Collaboration between KCS and Protector of the Gray Fortress, taken from an unfulfilled LiveJournal five-and-one prompt. Five times James Kirk managed to get off the Transporter platform by himself, and one time he just couldn’t.
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: Five Times James Kirk Managed to Get Off the Transporter Platform by Himself, and One Time He Just Couldn't  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy (this one)  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 1252 (this one)  
**Summary/Warning**: I stumbled across an unfulfilled, anonymously-requested prompt (see overlong title above) in a very old Star Trek meme on LiveJournal, and couldn't get away from it. As I've thoroughly corrupted my good friend _Protector of the Gray Fortress_ into a new fandom-obsession, we present our next collab. Yes, five-and-ones are done all the time, but that doesn't mean they're not great fun, especially when halfed with a friend. :)

* * *

**_Five Times James Kirk Managed to Get Off the Transporter Platform by Himself, and One Time He Just Couldn't_**

**I.**

Starfleet's yanking them off their current diplomatic assignment – ferrying ambassadors with more legs and antennae than brains to a peace conference in the next sector – to help with an epidemic of Arcturian Black Virus on Spartus III is not his idea of a promising mission. The death toll has already reached in the thousands by the time they reach the planet, due to conditions so primitive McCoy rants for a good thirty minutes about living in the Dark Ages when they beam down.

Spock is unnervingly silent, no doubt his accentuated mental sense reeling from the death and decay. Poor guy is more than willing to return to and remain on the ship, supervising the beam-down of supplies and medical teams. There's no miracle cure for the virus, but a few treatments that have a fairly high rate of success for strong patients. Unfortunately, most of the Spartuns' immune systems are incredibly weak from poor sanitation conditions, and each night it seems the medical teams lose more ground than they gain. Their only saving grace is that the virus can only be contracted by oral contact; his half-serious admonition when they beam down – to not get coughed on or kiss anyone – is met with a smattering of smiles but no real amusement.

Then they go to work; it's what they do. And all they _can_ do.

For twelve interminable days they remain in orbit around the quarantined planet, waiting for supply ships that never arrive – his report is going to blister the Admiralty's ears for that – and doing the only things possible for the survivors of the worst medical disaster in that world's history.

And then, of all the rotten luck, the proud Captain of the starship _Enterprise_ comes down with the virus.

It isn't his fault, he protests faintly after collapsing into McCoy's arms later that night; he hadn't known the cup the child offered him had been drunk out of by a native! But Bones is bundling him into the nearest cot, looking more scared than he's ever seen him, and injecting him with who-knows-what that conks him out right away.

When he wakes up, it's dark, and there are two shadows over him instead of one, and one is throwing a pointed-eared silhouette on the wall of the tent. They're talking – about him, he thinks fuzzily – and he notices from out of the haze that Bones's Southern drawl is ten times more pronounced, a sure sign that he's approaching the precipice of exhaustion at breakneck speed.

"Doctor, you require rest if you are to continue in this manner." Spock's voice – he'd know it even delirious…_was_ he delirious?...and it was softer than he'd heard in a long time.

"Y'think I don' know that?" _Poor Bones_, he thinks sadly, _all this work and he still loses two out of three patients_…

He hopes he's the third and not the first or second of the next set.

Then the pain begins, and for the next hour it's just a jumble of reassuring words and cold cloths and from somewhere a much calmer, deeper voice than McCoy's more frantic one, speaking softly about ship's business, about planetary statistics, about chess, about a hundred different things that he can't respond to but appreciates just the same. And then just before everything fades to black he hears a hypospray being discharged, not into _his_ neck, and is informed by the deep voice that McCoy will be resting for the next eight hours and that Nurse Chapel will be attending him...

He wakes up three days later, weaker than a Boravian coon-kit but past the danger zone, if McCoy's red-rimmed eyes are anything to go by. The communicator fairly drips relief when Spock hears the news, though no one would dare accuse even his disembodied voice of such a terribly human thing, and he's able to get up later in the day to make a call to the ship himself.

Late that night, the relief ships arrive, and they're slowly replaced with fresh 'Fleet personnel – though the worst of the epidemic is over with simply because there aren't that many people left to catch the virus.

Chapel's the last nurse to leave, and only after McCoy promises he'll follow directly with the Captain. He's still wavery on his feet, and not sure he's going to keep down the small lunch the CMO crammed down his throat earlier, but he gives the signal for beam-up with a forced strength that he doesn't feel a bit.

He's relieved, and happy too, to hear Spock on the other end, obviously completing the beam-up himself, but that's secondary compared to the nausea flare-up that starts in the transport. He's just wondering if it's possible to throw up inside a transporter beam when they materialize, in one piece and finally home.

He's about to step down to greet his First Officer, but McCoy doesn't move yet and for some reason he stays, swaying slightly but stationary enough.

"Doctor, Admiral Archer wishes to congratulate you and your medical staff on the saving of one thousand, two hundred and fourteen lives in the last fifteen days," the Vulcan is saying quietly.

A bitter snort is the first answer. "Twelve hundred out'f almost nine thousan', Spock…I _don't_ think that calls for _congratulations_," the CMO whispers, slurred with exhaustion, and the sound haunts the room like no ghost ever could.

Then Bones's eyes roll up in his head and his knees give out, so suddenly it scares him half to death. He jumps, but Spock is faster, and catches the doctor before he can hit the floor.

"What's…the matter with him, Spock?" he asks weakly, taking a step toward them.

He's surprised, but not shocked, by the gentleness in the voice that answers, or the hands that carefully call for a medical team and then lower the physician to the floor, elevating his head. "I believe, Captain, that the Doctor has overtaxed his energies far before today – to my knowledge, he has not slept for three days, and before that only when I forced him to."

That makes him feel even sicker, and he weaves for a second, getting his feet under him. Spock looks up quickly, but he stops him with an upraised hand and takes a careful step off the transporter pad.

The door opens before he can do more than that, and he fights off a flurry of nurses, ordering them with more force than necessary to see to their Chief Medical Officer. He stays upright for enough time to see McCoy safely on his way down the corridor, and focuses his waning concentration long enough to make a note – to have a long talk with his friend when he wakes up, and possibly pull some strings to get him back to Earth for a long shore leave.

Then the floor and walls aren't staying where they're supposed to be in relation to his feet, and he's only too happy to see a blue blur breaking his descent to the floor.

When he wakes up this time, he's in a bio-bed next to Bones, monitors beeping cheerfully, loud enough to wake the dead it seems like, and Spock is looking far too smug about the fact that he somehow managed to wrangle out of Starfleet three weeks' shore leave on Terra for both his captain and his CMO.

He wonders for a second how many people Spock had to nerve-pinch to make that happen, and then realizes McCoy's painkillers haven't worn off yet…


	2. Chapter 2

**Title**: Five Times James Kirk Managed to Get Off the Transporter Platform by Himself, and One Time He Just Couldn't  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy (this one)  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 1043 (this one)  
**Summary/Warning**: I stumbled across an unfulfilled, anonymously-requested prompt (see overlong title above) in a very old Star Trek meme on LiveJournal, and couldn't get away from it. As I've thoroughly corrupted my good friend _Protector of the Gray Fortress_ into a new fandom-obsession, we present our next collab. Yes, five-and-ones are done all the time, but that doesn't mean they're not great fun, especially when halfed with a friend. :)

**A/N (PGF): This is all KCS's fault! I was perfectly happy mooning over Holmes and Watson. I would have been contented to remain at Baker Street for the rest of my days.  
And then she brings in Spock!  
**

***facepalm* Turns out I like Kirk too, and I share some things in common with Bones. I've just finished all 79 episodes and two of the movies over Christmas break. I have been completely floored by this wonderful trio.  
**

**And it's all her fault.**

* * *

**_Five Times James Kirk Managed to Get Off the Transporter Platform by Himself, and One Time He Just Couldn't_**

**II.**

Kirk does not really mind the bickering of his two closest friends, but right now, with a horde the likes of which he's never seen, and only a little line of rocks to separate them from his little group, it's the last thing he needs.

"I told ya we should have brought more of 'em with us!" McCoy hisses at Spock, who cocks his head and looks blandly unoffended.

"Considering the ratio of the opposing force, and our own men, Doctor, a hundred more would not have made a significant difference."

"If you weren't such a blind arrogant fruitbat of a Vulcan we wouldn't—"

"Bones!" Kirk hisses, breathing through his nose.

The blue eyes look at him quizzically, with that slightly unfocused look, innocent and good-natured as a hound-dog. The comparison vanishes with a glare. "Well you heard him earlier, Jim! This is all his fault!"

"It doesn't matter whose fault it is!" He's beginning to feel like parent; why couldn't he ever be just a starship captain? A captain with a nice obedient crew that always did what he said, and leading officers that didn't plan mutiny behind his back whenever they felt the inkling.

"We need a plan. Do you have Scott, Spock?"

_"Righ' here, Captain,"_ trilled the little device in the Vulcan's hands. _"Yeh've no been gone fer five minutes, what have ye got yerselves intae now?"_

"Never mind Scotty, I'll regale you when we're back on board. We need to beam up now."

_"Right now? Just right now?"_

Kirk gnashes his teeth in frustration at the innocent tones of the engineer, he can just picture him shuffling his feet up on deck. "Yes, Mr. Scott, now."

_"Well all right, but yer gonna have to come in fives, the transport cannae manage more than that at a time, her dampers gave out a week ago, and I told ye…"_

Five.

Kirk looks to his first, looking for a solution, the Vulcan's face is stoic, even for this situation. "That will mean seven trips, Captain."

McCoy's eyes widen and he looks around at the men, his concern obvious. "Jim!"

"All right, let's get started." Kirk keeps his voice level, draws his friend back from the rocks. "Bones, take four with you, go now. Don't argue with me - we'll need you to see to the wounded."

And there will be wounded; the storm front of barbaric, hostile warriors descending says as much. The Doctor's objections are lost as Kirk herds four of the youngest ensigns together and Spock calls for the energize.

They're gone in a mist of glowing particles, to be safely reassembled board ship.

But the knot in his chest does not lessen - there are so many more of them, so many more, and all waiting for his signal.

Only Spock seems unconcerned, calmly directing the remaining forces to hold off the attack as best they can. Kirk continues to hustle them into groups so its easier for Scotty to scoop up. Each trip seems to take far too much time, and by the time there are only the ten of them left, they are surrounded and stunning men right and left. One bravely leaps over the rocks and is felled by a young man Kirk only knows as Ensign Jensen, an arrow sprouts in the lad's shoulder for his trouble. Kirk hurries to catch him.

"Spock! Take them up!"

The Vulcan is spearheading the defense, doing a very good High Noon impression for someone who'd claimed never to have seen a Western. Kirk added it to his list of things to show him. It was quite long now, but he wanted a chance to be able to shorten it.

"I'm sorry, Captain."

And before Kirk can ask what the heck he thinks he has to apologize for right now, something the Vulcan speaks into his communicator, which he has been secreting beside his face for some minutes. "Energize, Mr. Scott."

Kirks' limbs burst with the familiar pins and needles, the air is thick with arrows now; one flies through his glowing leg without stopping. He cries out as the grim-faced Vulcan and the plain and the pathetic huddle of rocks are gone.

He is numb, and not just from the transportation. He is staggering on the platform while the men gasp in relief around him, asking anxiously about their fellows.

A calloused, oily hand is on his collar dragging him back. "Move sir! Get yer rump off my platform! There's one more group!"

He's moving before Scotty finishes, practically rolling off to the floor, into the crowd of agitated landing participants. They're all being herded out, but he stays and locks his eyes on the metal disks.

It takes too long. He is half mad by the time another golden shower fills the too empty space.

When it solidifies, a sad pile of men emerge. One is holding his stomach, groaning as he rolls about. Two are limp and unmoving; one still standing with his hand still on his phaser; and curled on his side, arm outflung and silky head drooping is the one he is most concerned over.

"Spock!"

He is back on the platform, kneeling beside him. Turning him over with clumsy hands, unaware of any damage he might be causing.

"Spock, Spock!" he pleads, bent over the still face which is lined in a shadow of a grimace.

The dark eyes flicker partially open. They settle on his face, the Vulcan takes a quick, shallow breath. He is swearing, arms locked around the skinny chest, making sure that the ribs rise and fall, that the feeble breath continues despite the bloody, green splintered wood that pokes out of his blue tunic.

"Aw, Spock." He groans, letting his chin rest on the Vulcan's head. "You're supposed to be logical. How is throwing yourself to the wolves logical?"

"Don't give him any colorful figures of speech to complain over," McCoy mutters, hands working quickly, "this will be tricky enough for me to fix without his yapping to distract me."

"It wasn't…"

He looks down, Brown eyes are straining at the corners to peer up at him.

"But I am…as the good Doctor is so fond…of reminding me…half human."

"Yeah, well that doesn't make you any easier to treat." Bones glares, but there is a smile hidden at the corner of his mouth, and Kirk relaxes.

Everything is going to be fine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Title**: Five Times James Kirk Managed to Get Off the Transporter Platform by Himself, and One Time He Just Couldn't  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy (this one)  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 1762 (this one)  
**Summary/Warning**: I stumbled across an unfulfilled, anonymously-requested prompt (see overlong title above) in a very old Star Trek meme on LiveJournal, and couldn't get away from it. As I've thoroughly corrupted my good friend _Protector of the Gray Fortress_ into a new fandom-obsession, we present our next collab. Yes, five-and-ones are done all the time, but that doesn't mean they're not great fun, especially when halfed with a friend. :)

* * *

**_Five Times James Kirk Managed to Get Off the Transporter Platform by Himself, and One Time He Just Couldn't_**

**III.**

3. The third time he is quite pleased to feel so _good_ returning from a diplomatic peace talk; usually he has a headache the size of a small planetoid, and sometimes an allergy to alien foods, to bring home as a souvenir of his diplomatic skills. Now, there is only a pleasant hum of utter tranquility as he materializes between his resident physician and his science officer.

He hops off the transporter pad and beams beatifically at his Chief Engineer, who is eyeing him a bit oddly.

"Are ye all right, Captain?" Scott asks, though he has no idea why – he feels perfect.

"He's fine, just _fine_," Bones drawls from behind him. "That stuff they serve in place of a good old-fashioned after-dinner brandy is pretty potent."

"Quite," comes the dry tone of his First Officer before he can concur happily with Bones's diagnosis. "However, Doctor, for the Captain to refuse to imbibe would have been the height of discourtesy, and quite possibly would have dissolved the peace treaties he accomplished in the last four hours before the celebratory banquet."

"Mmhmm," he agrees wholeheartedly, quite pleased with his abilities as a diplomat; Starfleet doesn't think he has it in him. "'Member, you told me that b'fore we beamed down, Mr. Spock."

"So I did, Captain. I believe I also warned you as to the potency of the intoxicant, though apparently the third glass caused an aberrance in your memory."

"A…_what_ in my mem'ry?" Can't the man use words of one syllable at least _sometimes_? "Bones, I don' have ab-whatever-it-ises in my mem'ry, do I?"

"Far be it from me to disagree with a Vulcan," the doctor declares sagely, slinging his tricorder onto the console for Scott to replace with the stores.

"A wise outlook, Doctor."

"Nobody asked you, Spock. Um…Jim…"

_Clunk. _

He scowls blackly and staggers back toward his Chief Engineer. "Mr. Scott, who the _devil_ gave orders t' move the doors to the Transporter Room??"

"They're over here, Jim," comes the not-quite-laughing voice of McCoy to his left. "Where they've always been."

"Have not," he grumbles dissertively, weaving toward the voice. _Whoa_. His eyes widen in surprise – the floor never jumped up at him like that before…

A blue arm sets him briskly back on his feet, putting the world to rights as usual, and he smiles happily at its owner. "Thanks, Mr. Spock."

Behind him Scott chuckles. "Y' didn't happen t' bring a bottle of the good stuff back with ye I don' suppose, Doctor?"

"No, I _didn't_," McCoy is growling like a bulldog, grabbing his arm and hauling him out the doors which are now back where they're supposed to be.

"Pity," he hears the mournful answer as the doors swoosh shut behind them, almost catching his boot-heel.

"Hey…" He scowls at the door but is yanked unceremoniously down the corridor.

"C'_mon_, Jim, before anybody sees you."

"It tried t' shut my foot in the door, Bones!"

"It's a shame it wasn't your head, then," comes the sour response, and he gives the physician a wounded look. "Don't look at me like that, it's not gonna change anything."

"Why're you dragging me, Bones?" Seriously, if he doesn't slow down the wall is going to reach out and grab him again…

"Because you're drunker than a Klingon wedding feast, _Captain_," is growled in his ear as they reach the turbolift.

Indignant, he gives the man a wobbly glare. The doors open, and he is guided inside by two separate sets of hands. "I am _not_ drunk, Bones." He can't be drunk, because if he was drunk he wouldn't be standing here with his two best friends in all the universe – any universe – talking calmly and logically and…well, he's not standing, he's _leaning_, but that's beside the point.

"Sickbay. You're _drunk_, Jim."

He scowls, folds his arms in defiance. "Am not."

"Oh, for the love of heaven…"

"Captain," comes the calmer voice from his other side, and he swivels his head to look. He never realized how _tall_ his First Officer was; he was getting a pain in the neck looking up at him. "Your movements are impaired, your speech patterns erratic, and according to Dr. McCoy's tricorder readings before we beamed up from the planet's surface the alcohol content in your blood has exceeded levels befitting to an officer on duty. You are quite intoxicated."

Hurt by Spock taking Bones's side instead of his, he looks up sadly. But Spock is always right, so he must really be intoxy…intock…sloshed. Really.

"Really?"

The dark eyes glint for a second, in what he knows is amusement even though Vulcans don't really feel it…or however that saying goes; maybe laughing inside at someone doesn't really count as emotion because it's a state of mind instead of a feeling? He isn't sure, and sure isn't going to ask.

"Affirmative, sir."

"Well, tha's great. Gonna remove me from duty then, Bones?" he asks eagerly, poking the physician in the shoulder.

McCoy swats his hand away, sending him listing dangerously back toward Spock. "Ya think?" his friend returns irritably, glaring daggers at him with those impossibly blue eyes.

"All I need's some sleep –"

"And a detox shot, and some black coffee, and Lord knows what else for the hangover in a few hours," comes the mutter. "Darned stupid alien traditions..." A sudden guilty look. "No offense, Spock."

"None taken, Doctor. I assure you, your human traditions evoke much the same response in me."

"Spock's not a _alien_," he protests, shouldering back into the conversation, for he can hardly let that pass. "You can't just go 'round callin' people _aliens_, Bones…_woah_." He blinks as the doors swish open on a brightly-lit corridor. "Ow."

"Come along, Captain," Bones is muttering in his ear; it tickles. "Move your feet."

Oh. He does, even though they don't want to move, and the floor seems to bounce underneath him like they're being bombarded with phaser fire. "What'd we hit?" he asks worriedly, because no red lights are flashing…

"Nothing, Captain," Spock says calmly from his other side. "I believe your sense of equilibrium is compromised."

He is slightly annoyed with all the attention, and spreads his arms in an earnest gesture. "I assure you, gentlemen, I am fersectly punctional."

A passing yeoman – wow, what legs – gives him a funny look, and he flashes his thousand-mega-watt smile and wishes he could remember her name.

Bones is choking down a laugh and yanking on his arm again. "Leggo, Bones," he protests, trying to pull free. "'S embarrassing me."

"Captain, I believe you are doing a remarkably effective job of that _without_ the aid of Dr. McCoy," comes the serious voice on his left, and his other arm is snatched before he can grab at the wavering wall again.

"Har har." He scowls over at his traitorous Vulcan friend, and only gets one of those weird eyebrow-smile thingies. "'S not funny, Spock. I _had_ t' drink the stuff."

"So you did, Captain." At least his First was agreeing with him; that was something. Not much, but something. "And Starfleet Command will be quite gratified to read of your successful diplomacy in a difficult situation."

"Yup," he agrees, and waves cheerily at Nurse Chapel as they weave into a quiet Sickbay. "Pretty darn good diplo…dip…peace-talking, if I do say so myself."

"Sit 'im on that bed," McCoy orders, sighing through his nose and reaching for a hypospray.

"Why so grumpy, Bones?" he asks sadly, fixing a blurry look on his friend. "We just diplomatized three whole planets, what're you so – ow! Spock, make him stop!"

"Far be it from me to disagree with a witch doctor," comes the response, and he narrows the one eye he can see through in Spock's direction – either he really _is_ drunk, or the sneaky Vulcan is getting snarkier every day. Either that or he's hallucinating due to Bones's awesome meds which are now pushing through his veins so quick he can _feel_ them work.

McCoy's yowling seems to bear out the theory that he's still awake enough to hear Spock correctly. "Witch doctor! How'd you like me to put an _emetic_ into your Vulcan tea tonight?"

He holds up both hands; he's the Captain, after all, not an innocent bystander. "Gennelmen, I believe this hash gone far enough," he interrupts smoothly, standing in a regal gesture of authority. "Now, if you will ezcuse me to my quarters, Doctor, I will…"

The floor is doing that let's-jump-out-of-normal-flatness-and-smack-Jim-Kirk-in-the-face thing again, and he braces himself – that's going to hurt, a _lot_ – but he's caught again by two sets of arms, and bundled back onto the bed.

"You, Captain, are stayin' here – you're gonna have one heck of a hangover in about six hours," Bones informs him as Spock shoves the pillow under his aching head and then steps safely out of the line of fire.

"I hava report t' write, Bones," he mutters, rubbing his eyes – they're blurring over again; what was in that hypo?

"I shall care for it, Captain," comes the reassuring voice by his head. "I believe you have done your fair share in this mission."

"Hmm…you don' mind?" he asks hopefully. Good old Spock, he always did love to correct his reports for exact accuracy anyhow…

"I believe it would be advisable, under the circumstances. Sir." Is that a smirk?. No, surely not…Bones's meds, probably.

He waves a limp hand. "Very well, then, Mr. Spock…you have the conn. And the paperwork," he adds with a sleepy snigger, curling up on his side with an arm slipped under his head, and yawns widely.

Everything's a little fuzzy, but he can hear Bones grumbling and puttering about with med-scanners whirring above him for the next few seconds after he closes his eyes, comfortably warm and sleepy. Then, there are voices over his head.

"You are quite certain there will be no ill effects from the intoxicant, Doctor?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. He's gonna have a bad headache when that stuff wears off, though. I'll put him on medical leave for the next twenty-four hours, and if Starfleet doesn't like it that's just too bad."

"I doubt they will mind, as the result of his inebriation was the alliance of three warring planets with each other and the Federation."

"Mmhm. Well, are you going to go do your reports or just hang around the ward like you usually do when he's in here?"

"I do not 'hang around', here or anywhere else aboard this ship, Doctor."

"Do too. Unless you're on duty, you mope around Sickbay like a pointy-eared puppy when Jim's stuck in here, and so does he when you're in here for some reason. And don't even bother to deny it, just _get_. He's gonna sleep now."

"I see no reason for your continual insults toward me, Dr. McCoy. And furthermore, if –"

He finally growls in sleepy protest; they're not helping his headache at _all_. "Take it outside, will you?" he mumbles into the pillow, smothering another yawn in its cozy depths.

After a startled pause, the familiar argument fades into background noise across the room, and he smiles; all things considered, it's been a satisfying day.


	4. Chapter 4

**Title**: Five Times James Kirk Managed to Get Off the Transporter Platform by Himself, and One Time He Just Couldn't  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy (this one)  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 1359 (this one)  
**Summary/Warning**: I stumbled across an unfulfilled, anonymously-requested prompt (see overlong title above) in a very old Star Trek meme on LiveJournal, and couldn't get away from it. As I've thoroughly corrupted my good friend _Protector of the Gray Fortress_ into a new fandom-obsession, we present our next collab. Yes, five-and-ones are done all the time, but that doesn't mean they're not great fun, especially when halfed with a friend. :)

* * *

**_Five Times James Kirk Managed to Get Off the Transporter Platform by Himself, and One Time He Just Couldn't_**

**IV.**

They hear the distress signal from much too far away. The distance is so great Uhura has trouble picking it up, when they finally do come into contact it's a garbled whisper over the channel.

"By my estimation it will take us two hours to reach their location, Captain." Spock reports coolly over the desperate voices calling for assistance.

Kirk nods, his face grave and lined so it suddenly looks like he is the oldest of Starfleet's Captains rather than its youngest.

"Warp factor seven, Mr. Sulu."

Spock shares a knowing glance with McCoy over their captain's golden head. The speed is excessive, the engine has only been recently patched together with whatever miscellanea and trash Mr. Scott can fix it with. It will push the Enterprise to her limits.

But it will still be much too slow for the troubled vessel.

Seeing the rigid, determined line of Kirk's shoulders Spock motions Uhura to continue the transmission internally, through her headpiece. The voices are quieted for now much to the bridge's relief…Kirk is too focused to notice.

They are only eitheen minutes away when the lieutenant pulls the headset from her ear and lets it land shakily on the console, lowering hear head between her dark trembling fingers. The impact rings like phaser blast in the tense room and Kirk's out of his whirling chair in a moment, he takes up the headpiece before either of his friend's can stop him.

He holds it to his head for a moment, and as they watch his face grows older, his eyes fade and grow reflective with dread, like two shallow pools of murky water. "Mr. Spock…" the name comes shakily, like it's hard to remember it for a moment. "…take over communication please."

The Vulcan readily relieves his Captain of the task, McCoy watches the younger man go back to his chair and lean over it, shoulders hunched, grim and hawklike, eyes fixed on their progress.

Spock shows no reaction, though his face goes carefully blank, and from the natural icy repellent of his demeanor it is obvious he is working to maintain his shields.

The Doctor shudders in sympathy. He knows firsthand how much emotion can come through just voices, let alone touch. He wonders if humans or Vulcans are more receptive to sound. Mind you…considering those ears…

"Bones," Kirk is pushing himself away from the chair, they are only ten minutes away. The Captain is not bothering to make eye contact as he commands…never a good sign. "Go and get a med-kit, bring an assistant, meet me in the transporter room."

He does not relish the task ahead, but it is a relief to leave the room and the gallows atmosphere surrounding it. Funny, how most people nowadays don't even know what that means anymore.

Eight minutes later they're all on the pad, Kirk, Spock, McCoy, two armed ensigns, and nurse Aarons. Scott works the controls himself, aware that the Captain will be far too impatient for any of his sub-engineers.

As soon as they are close enough the Scotsman energises and for an instant they are nothing as their particles are transferred to the ship…then their feet solidify on metal decking once more.

Only it is not just metal decking anymore, and they slip and skid the instant they're real again.

The nurse shrieks, and grabs the nearest ensign to keep her footing, her boots are awash with the muck on the ground, coolant, wiring, debris...and something that only adds to the metallic smell.

Kirk's hand goes to the steady his first as the Vulcan staggers--McCoy keeps a hand on the wall--and he looks down at the chaos. The frail spark of humanity inside him barely has time to cringe before thin, insistent hands are shoving him down against the wall like McCoy. A shout goes up…a warning from someone…and a light bursts in the corridor, blinding and quick. And just as quickly Aarons and her ensign are added to the chaos; gone in the same instant.

The second man is on the ground as well…but he is moving, arm clenched around his red, and reddening tunic, groaning and twisting in the wiring that sparks around him.

But Kirk does not have time to go to him, another light flashes…no two, he is shoved facedown, once again by Spock; he sees a face, blank, eyes open and unresponsive, hand clenched around a communication device.

He heard her voice, he realizes. That was her voice he heard, vibrant and alive not more than twenty minutes ago…panicky and desperate…begging for help…pleading. He can still hear it echoing in his head as he looks at her face.

She can't be more than seventeen.

"Doctor get back!" He looks up to see Spock, simultaneously aiming down the corridor and trying to hold McCoy down with one hand. Bones is putting up a spectacular fight, swearing the air blue and trying to fight his way to the wounded ensign. The man has stopped moving…but that is no guarantee that he can't…he could just be unconscious.

"Let me go you heartless hobgoblin!"

Spock has never shown emotion to McCoy. In fact he seems to make a special effort of hiding it around this particular human. But as Kirk watches the Vulcan shoves him down, rather roughly, and the force of it is startling. Bones thuds to the ground, looses all the air from his lungs and stares at the Vulcan with that wide-eyed look Kirk has only seen a handful of times before.

Spock's free hand snatches up his communicator, he fires again and something dark and hulking shrieks and retreats further down the hall…but it does not disappear…it is there still, lurking, surging, readying itself for attack.

"Energize, Mr. Scott!"

And all too quickly they are back on the pad, safe and secure, in a clean, sterile atmosphere that does not stink of blood and burning and corroded metal. It is like waking from a nightmare…except that their clothes are still soaked in the remains of the other ship…and its occupants.

Kirk crouches beside his companions for a long moment…then he fights his way to his feet, brushing off Scotty's hand. He has to get to the Bridge…there is a ship to blow up, and hostile creatures to destroy, he can crouch and cringe later.

He steps off the transporter pad…but in his head all he can think about is how many people cannot do the same. And the voice in his head, seventeen, female and desperately frightened. It will be calling forever, he realizes, and in the dark hours of the night he might hear it now and again, pleading for help.

And he'll never be able to answer it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Title**: Five Times James Kirk Managed to Get Off the Transporter Platform by Himself, and One Time He Just Couldn't  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy (this one)  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 1779 (this one)

**A/N:** Very sorry about the delay in this one, to anyone who was reading it. My life has been crazy lately and this has been sitting half-finished on my hard drive for weeks. The next chapter is also half-finished, and I hope to have it up this week sometime. Each chapter was meant to be extremely different in tone, and so the last one is going to be totally different from this; look forward to some more lightheartedness after all the angst. Thanks for sticking with it so far!

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**_Five Times James Kirk Managed to Get Off the Transporter Platform by Himself, and One Time He Just Couldn't_**

**V.**

The fifth time, Spock has barely materialized himself when a gold blur shoots off the Transporter Pad and into the corridor before any of the still-stunned landing party can react.

He is well aware that it is the captain's sheer desperation and a wish to hide from the universe he's just saved at a horrible cost that propels him away from his crew, but the human is running especially from McCoy.

The doctor is still furious, more so than before, because no one has had time or desire to tell him what he started and his captain had to finish, and the others have even less of an idea why their commander is acting like he is – but Spock knows, and he moves to the console to snap an order across the comm; to clear the corridors between the Transporter Room and the Captain's quarters. It is the least he can do to preserve Jim's dignity, and for now it is _all_ he can do, because McCoy is about to throw someone into a wall if he does not receive some answers, and the Vulcan is the only one who can give them.

The landing party takes one look at his face and they scatter, knowing him better than to even voice their questions. Scott he sends to the Bridge, to take the _Enterprise_ out of orbit and away from the temporal disturbances, and he knows he does not have to tell Lieutenant Uhura to contact Starfleet with a request for declaring the planet below off-limits until studies of the Guardian can be made.

Then he wastes no time in softening the blow of Truth, and ten minutes later is striding down the corridor beside a very white-faced physician.

"I'll be lucky if he ever forgives me for this," McCoy mutters, shamefaced, as they reach the turbolift, and he is not certain whether it is the altering of time or the words of accusation for Edith Keeler's permitted death to which the human is referring. "If any of my staff had been that careless with a hypo full of cordrazine, I'd've booted 'em out of my division at the next Starbase…"

"You know the Captain as well as I do, Doctor. He will both forgive you, and indeed need you as he grieves now," he states the fact without emotion, though the words are purposely meant to reassure.

The turbolift refuses to open.

"Computer, diagnostic of turbolift functions," he orders, not-quite-frowning at the nearby console.

_"Turbolift paused between decks five and six. Manual override: Kirk, James T., Captain," _comes the mechanically female voice of the computer, and they give each other a calculating look.

"Medical override: Voice recognition - McCoy, Leonard H., Chief Medical Officer," the doctor snaps into the speaker, and a whirring noise greets him.

_"Voice override acknowledged."_

"Return lift to Transporter Deck."

It is only fifteen and two-fifths seconds, though it seems as many minutes, but finally the doors open and they are greeted with what is probably meant to be a defensive glare, made somewhat ineffective by the obvious signs of approaching tears.

Before a word can be said they have both stepped inside, on either side, and the captain slumps against the wall in silent surrender to the inevitable. One hand wrapped around his middle in a self-protective gesture – an unconscious one, that only manifests itself when he is feeling most vulnerable – and the other balled into a fist resting against his chin, Jim refuses to meet McCoy's gaze and only glances at his First briefly before returning to his floor inspection.

Spock twists the wall control. "Deck Five."

They have not quite reached it when Kirk's formerly flushed face goes white as the spotless lift walls, and he drags the back of his wrist across his eyes.

McCoy stiffens on the other side, afraid to touch him but more afraid not to. "Jim?"

"I'm…fine, Bones," he murmurs faintly, though it is an obvious falsehood.

Spock is silent, out of his depth in these emotional matters; not with feeling and identifying them, but with knowing how to control them without reacting to them. The doors open on the deserted deck, and the Captain casts them both a weary look, as if inquisitive about a conspiracy but too tired to actually voice the question.

They walk down the corridor in tandem, synchronous rhythm steady but slower than usual.

Spock is intent upon shielding his mind against the grief that radiates from his captain as well as the guilt to match it from their Chief Medical Officer, so much so that it is McCoy and not he who catches hold of Kirk's arm when the captain sways unsteadily, groping for the wall in an effort to stay on his feet.

McCoy's swearing hastens his pace. The door to the captain's quarters opens at his approach, and he remains in the sensor's range to keep it open while the doctor staggers through, half-dragging, half-supporting his dazed commanding officer.

"Delayed shock," is the curt explanation, delivered in a chopped growl as he moves to help. "Help me get him into bed, and then call Medical and get Chapel down here."

"I'm…all right, Bones," the captain murmurs faintly, though the body beneath their gentle grip is shivering, too cool to the touch and obviously anything _but_ fine.

"Shut up, Jim," McCoy snaps with a cuff upside the golden head to accompany the command, and the Vulcan again marvels at how such a harsh tone and words can still sound affectionate from this particular human. "Easy now…that's it. Spock, get a couple of blankets out of that drawer," the doctor directs, and for once he obeys without question.

He pauses long enough to lift the captain's legs onto the mattress, elevating them on a couple of pillows, and then leaves McCoy to the task of removing the man's boots. Thirty-five seconds later, he has comm-ed Sickbay and gathered up two blankets, and then returns to the sleeping alcove to find their physician checking his patient's pulse in the old-fashioned way, timing the heart-beats through the wrist.

"Definitely in shock," McCoy says in a low tone, wrapping the soft fleece around the half-conscious figure. Jim mutters something that sounds suspiciously like _go_ _'way, Bones _and lies still, breathing shallowly. "No wonder, either, after all that. And neither of you have been eating or sleeping properly, have you?" A stern look, directed at the Vulcan's somewhat malnourished figure. "How long were you there before I came into the picture?"

"Thirteen days, fifteen hours, and forty-five minutes," he replies quietly, and seats himself beside McCoy on the bed.

The physician times the pulse again, and then lays the limp wrist back on the bed, tenderly tucking a corner of the blanket around the exposed hand. When he looks up after a few seconds spent in silence, the blue eyes are dark cobalt, glinting in the soft light with regret and grief.

"Do not blame yourself for events which you could not control, Doctor," he ventures, breaking the stillness with the logic of that which cannot be changed. "You are no more to blame for Edith Keeler's death than the Captain is – no more, and no less. You must share this burden with him, rather than taking it solely upon yourself, for you both need each other now."

McCoy gives a rather wet snort, and barely cracks a smile. "Who died 'n' made you Head Psychiatrist around here?"

He is prevented from replying to the idiom by the captain's half-conscious mutterings, which lead into a bout of severe nausea and a drop in blood pressure that sends McCoy and his Head Nurse off into a small medical tornado of activity; and perhaps it is for the best that it is another two hours before the captain is stable enough to drop into normal sleep. The emotional ramifications of what happened on the planet can wait until the physical have been dealt with, and that last is something that McCoy can do, and quite well, to subconsciously make amends for his carelessness that began the entire episode.

Spock moves about the cabin silently, staying well out of the physician's path but ready to lend aid in any way he can; and he knows from the short, curt nod he receives as the Captain stabilizes that the doctor is appreciative of his efforts. He and McCoy have never seen quite eye-to-eye on certain issues, and through the years they have come to an understanding, an agreement to disagree in various areas; but in the area of one Captain James T. Kirk they are in perfect harmony, and tonight it is more obvious than at any previous time.

By mutual agreement, silent but nonetheless binding, they both know they are not going anywhere for the duration of ship's night, and so they bunk down in the captain's sitting area to discuss details of what happened on the mission and what can be done to keep the captain from withdrawing into a brooding shell for the next few weeks. Various shore leave ideas are brought up and discussed (and discarded), and Spock is slightly amused at McCoy's amazed expression when he informs the doctor that both he and Jim would welcome the CMO along on any journey they decide to take.

And when, in the early hours of ship's dawn, they are both jolted awake by quiet, lonely sobbing from the sleeping alcove, there is no discussion of human emotions and logical consequences for actions taken in the line of duty; they simply move in tandem, both determined upon a solution to the most important problem in the universe at that moment.


	6. Chapter 6

**Title**: Five Times James Kirk Managed to Get Off the Transporter Platform by Himself, and One Time He Just Couldn't  
**Characters**: Kirk, Spock, McCoy (this one)  
**Rating**: K+  
**Word Count**: 1460 (this one)  
**A/N:** All done! Tried to make each chapter very different from the others, so here's the last one and utter nonsense it is, too. :) I hope someone enjoyed this, as PGF and I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for all the reviews!

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**VI. _And the one time he just couldn't…_ **

"Spock, DON'T. MOVE. AT ALL," are the first words out of his mouth upon materializing, more a yelp of panic than an unnecessary order.

"Captain, I assure you I have absolutely no plans to move a muscle until steps are taken to ensure one or the other of us is not crushed."

"Oh, sweet Lord have mercy…" the drawling moan comes from behind Scott at the controls, and he knows Bones has been waiting for them (as usual).

"Aye…he'd better, tha's all I've got t'say," comes Scott's sigh of agreement, and he cocks his head slightly to one side in concentration – it sounds suspiciously like the man is laughing.

"Jim, how in the name of all creation did you get yourself into this?"

"It _wasn't my fault_, Bones!"

"Captain," his First Officer inquires with amazing patience, bless him, "might I ask that you refrain from further protests until we have been extricated?"

"Um…yeah, I think that would be a good…idea…ohhhh boy," he mutters, yelping as he nearly loses his balance and only righting himself after McCoy grabs his upper arm.

The mission, to live for one week among the people of Planet-whose-primary-language-could-use-more-vowels for the purpose of seeing if they were advanced enough for a first contact, had been fairly peaceful, until an unfortunate gust of mischievous wind had blown Spock's feathered headdress off and betrayed his ears to the natives.

Unfortunately, said natives were as superstitious as one could imagine, and had declared the strangers to be demons, condemning them to death in the usual fashion (by that meaning, usual at this point for _Enterprise_ away mission tradition; it just wouldn't be a landing party without one or the other of the COs attracting some sort of trouble). This was nothing new, and their transponders had of course not been discovered on their persons – but Starfleet's orders were to not beam up unless threatened with actual and instantaneous death, due to the natives' need to be shielded from all technology.

He and Spock had had a rather heated (no pun intended) argument about whether being left in the middle of a desert for the vultures, tied back-to-back on either side of a stake taller than Spock's head and fifteen inches in diameter, constituted actual _death_.

Luckily, Scotty had been monitoring their vital signs at the insistence of the Chief Medical Officer, and when Kirk's temperature rose too high and they hadn't moved an inch in five hours, he activated emergency beam-up.

Unfortunately, the two COs were so close together that they had to be locked onto the same transporter pad.

And the stake to which they'd been tied had been integrated as well into the pattern lock.

They had materialized on the Enterprise, somewhat relieved but still tied together, the top of the stake inches from the ceiling and their equilibrium in considerable danger of toppling one and crushing the other beneath the weight of a small tree (was it a tree if it had berries on it before being cut down?) trunk. Luckily the stake had not been buried too deeply in the sand, and the command team had been tied just loosely enough that they had been able to shift their weight downward as soon as they'd dropped with a thunk, staggering for a second and then regaining balance in perfect sync – and somehow managing to look quite dignified doing so.

However, that was five minutes ago – and it doesn't help the current situation that McCoy is now laughing like a hyena behind the Transporter console at his commanding officers' predicament.

"Bones, cut us loose!" he growls, considerably _not_ in the mood. He is pretty sure he's sunburned in places that never even saw the light of day (eighteen-hour-long ones, yes), judging from the feeling of fire-ants crawling over his exposed face and arms, and it's also likely that he's suffering from heatstroke, given the temperature of the planet, the lack of water, and the fact that Spock spent the last ten minutes of their predicament arguing with him over whether severe dehydration counted as imminent death.

The dizziness doesn't help him stay steady on his feet, and he wavers slightly for a moment. He tries to hide a weak laugh as Spock emits an undignified squawk, feet shuffling to correct their balance before they're flattened, and isn't at all successful.

A hissing sound and tingling in his arm yank his head to the left, and he scowls at innocent blue eyes. "You couldn't wait until you untied us to do that?" he grumps, though he's grateful for the saline shot and will be as grateful for the rehydration process.

"On it, sir," comes Scott's voice from the other side of the pole. "Ach, but you did a number on these ropes, Mr. Spock!"

Either the heatstroke or just personal wisdom tunes out the ensuing explanation, delivered in that patient, longsuffering, you-humans-possess-such-inferior-vocabularies-so-why-do-you-even-try tone, about how it is utterly impossible to "do" any integer possessing numeric value on the cords that hold them to the pole.

Bones pronounces the (very informed and expert) diagnosis of sunburn and heatstroke. He _knows_ there's a reason he keeps the man around…

"Admiral Komack is about to have kittens over the way this mission went, you're bordering on severe heatstroke, and you're going to be peeling for days even with lotions, with that sunburn." And he's so _cheerful_, too…

"Doctor, it is impossible for any _homo sapien_ to reproduce outside its species, especially such a vastly different animal as those of the feline families –"

"Did I ask you?" Bones snaps, waving a scanner in the Vulcan's face (Spock's hands are still tied, fortunately for the doctor).

"Negative, Doctor. You do tend to monopolize conversations, I have noticed."

Bones, running the scanner over what must be one very sunburned captain-nose, mutters something that sounds slightly crude (and anatomically impossible, even for Vulcans), and Kirk grins at the physician.

He then feels some give in the ropes around his hands, and wriggles them the rest of the way free with a breath of gratitude for their wonderful Chief Engineer. "Good work, Scotty. Bones, get out of my face with that thing."

"That's gratitude for you," he hears as the physician moves his attention back to Spock, whose skin has darkened into a shade of greenish bronze; even Vulcans, while accustomed to intense sunlight, will react to strange suns' rays just as any other humanoid species will.

He doesn't think it's fair that Spock tans (mostly) and he burns (completely), though, and his already-itching face agrees with him on that.

"If I hadn't insisted Scott monitor your transponder signals, you'd still be down there cooking – and don't you forget it either, you stubborn space elf!"

He can almost hear Spock's eyebrows beginning their performance, and he sighs, settling in for the usual ten minutes following any hazardous mission. At least Scotty has his feet free now, and is cutting his First loose with slightly less care.

"I am highly unlikely to forget even were I capable, as you no doubt will keep reminding me in your uniquely irritating manner, for the remainder of our five-year mission, Doctor."

"I'll show you _irritating_," Bones challenges, poking the Vulcan in the arm, "when you want something for that sunburn!"

The Transporter Room wavers for a second before righting itself, and he knows he needs to get some water before he embarrasses himself by fainting or something; though that would probably shut up the argument taking place to his right on the Transporter Pad.

"Scotty, beam that tree to Xenobotany Lab Four," he sighs, rubbing a hand over his irritated nose. "Then tell Uhura I'm coming up to talk to Komack."

"Aye, Captain."

He intends to add _And see if you can shut these two up before everybody's headache is as bad as mine is_ to his order, just as he intends to step down and head out the door under his own volition; but apparently his wobbly legs have other ideas, and he breaks up the argument himself by executing a perfect stagger-roll off the platform and straight into two sets of blue-sleeved arms.

He's not sure whether to laugh or cry or punch one or both of them over the fact that they catch him, gently haul him upright, inject him with another saline shot and begin to spread some sticky but oh-so-cold cream on his sunburned face, order Scott to fetch a container of water –

– and without skipping a beat, continue bickering over his head.

No doubt they both think he's delirious when he starts laughing his head off, but he can't find it in himself to wish for any other outcome to a mission than this moment.


End file.
